Mycroft and Sherlock

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  “Parfitt, for the love of heaven,” Mycroft added, “move closer, as there is shelter enough for the whole of London!”

  “At the office, I noticed you were not carrying an umb—an um—”

  “An umbrella?” Mycroft finished for him.

  Parfitt nodded. “And I recalled that my aunt had this—sorry!” This last apology was to a corpulent gentleman struggling to get around them without stumbling off the pavement into the muddy street. “She sends her regards!”

  “Which I return,” Mycroft said. “Now, let us go,” he urged amidst sour looks, “before someone takes a notion to have us both hung by our heels from this thing.”

  With no more incidents, and blessedly dry, the two made their way across the street to a small nearby pub, Ye Olde Cock Tavern. Its narrow frontage was crowded between two more prominent buildings, yet it rose up proud and flinty, and its triangular Tudor roofline seemed to pierce the mist.

  Mycroft was drawn to the fact that Douglas’s favorite author, the recently deceased Charles Dickens, had often dined there. It made it strangely cheerful, as if frequented by benevolent ghosts.

  Inside, men were taking their repast. The ink and print stains on their fingers and coats, the pallor of their skin, and the querulous nature of their arguments marked them as newspapermen.

  Like the rest of the country, they were discussing Saturday’s Scotland/England game in boisterous, combative voices that each proclaimed he knew best:

  “If the Scotch had had but Tailyour and Kinnaird…”

  “…and if me granny’d had wheels, she’d be a carriage…”

  “And why was the match delayed a full twenty minutes…”

  “Gardner had a brilliant run…”

  “…for all the good it did him!”

  Mycroft sat down at a table with a satisfied sigh, the earlier blue funk dissipated. He had altered a game that had resulted in front-page news. He had saved the Queen a good deal of political trouble. He may have even preserved a life or two, for riots often ended in bloodshed. Yet none of those men, for all of their fabled reporter’s noses, had sniffed him out.

  He wondered if Sherlock would enjoy working in such anonymity, for that was what Mycroft liked best. If he could not marry, then as long as there was breath in him, these behind-the-scenes machinations for the common good would remain his highest calling.

  As the rain continued to beat down with newfound fury, streaking the pub’s frosted windows, a beckoning fire blazed in the small hearth, and Parfitt and Mycroft dug into their beef pies and drank their ale as Parfitt shared what he had discovered about the Chinese gentleman and his possible ties to Professor Cainborn.

  “You compared the records very carefully?” Mycroft asked when he’d heard it all, though he knew it was a question uttered mostly for the sake of protocol, for Parfitt was nothing if not conscientious.

  Parfitt had just swallowed too big a bite of pastry, which he quickly washed down with a gulp of beer. “Oh yessir, Mr. Holmes, most carefully indeed,” he mumbled.

  “Splendid,” Mycroft replied, meaning it. “What you have unearthed is quite valuable. As always, I am grateful.”

  “And I to you,” Parfitt responded quietly. “For all you have done for me and my—”

  But Mycroft, having heard what he needed, was already on his feet and paying the bill. The last thing he wanted was to give in to some maudlin emotion, especially since he seemed so close to the edge of that lately.

  Parfitt’s news had only resulted in a heightened sense of… what was it? Destiny? The sense of being entangled in a tattered quagmire that he did not seek out, but that Providence had laid in his path because he was the only one who could mend it?

  Sooner or later, instead of arriving to a mystery kicking and screaming, would he feel a calling to search it out, to unearth evil at its foundations?

  Doubtful. He would not live that long.

  As Parfitt quickly gulped down the remainder of his meal and set about gathering umbrella and coats, Mycroft glanced down at Parfitt’s boots. He had noticed them earlier, of course. Only this time, the wistfulness he felt upon seeing them was almost too much to bear.

  Destiny indeed.

  It seemed that, these days, he was destined to run from one treacly sensation smack dab into another.

  “If you came by omnibus,” he said casually, “I will gladly recompense you.”

  “Oh no, sir. It’s been a good long while since I have needed it. Not since you gave me Abie, sir.”

  “Abie is nearby, then?” Mycroft said, pleased to know he had guessed correctly.

  “Oh yessir. He is well cared for at the mews, for I know the lad what—that works there…”

  As Parfitt helped him on with his overcoat, Mycroft smiled. “My hunch is, you know ‘the lad what works’ at just about every mews in London. For I have rarely met a kinder, more resourceful fellow as you. May I see him?”

  “Now, sir?” Parfitt said, already blushing scarlet from the unexpected compliment. “Yessir, Abie would be t-tickled, sir!”

  “Not nearly so much as I,” Mycroft said, stepping through the door that Parfitt held open for him.

  Abie the Hanoverian had always been a well-proportioned fellow, his fine reddish blond coat shiny with meticulous grooming. He turned towards the sound of footsteps with his usual equanimity of temper, for he was not one to startle easily. Though if horses could execute a double-take, Mycroft would have sworn that he did so the moment he laid eyes on his former master.

  “Good lad,” Mycroft said, approaching him, his tone gentle and beckoning. “Such a fine lad.”

  Abie nickered a greeting of his own, moved sideways towards Mycroft to indicate friendship and trust, and flicked his tail. Then he lowered his head so that Mycroft could scratch his brow. As Mycroft did so, he recalled Georgiana’s words when she’d first laid eyes on the gelding: Ah, what a handsome lad! Dark blond hair, a good, strong chest, a keen and brilliant eye, and a steady disposition, much like its owner!

  Abie had hardly altered in the ensuing two years. His former proprietor, on the other hand, had changed very much indeed.

  Before he could stop himself, Mycroft turned to Parfitt, who stood like a proud father at the entry to the mews. “Can he still do a short run today, d’you think?”

  “Oh yessir. He is as able as any horse! He has good wind, and recovers quickly!”

  “Would it be all right if I borrowed him for a short ride? I promise to return him to the office before your work day is over. I realize it is awfully wet outside, and I would undo all your efforts with that blasted umbrella.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Holmes! I shall come retrieve him, just say where! For we would both be honored!” Parfitt added, grinning from ear to ear.

  * * *

  It was a two-mile canter from Fleet Street to Regent Street, where Mycroft was to meet Douglas. And even with passersby blinded by umbrellas and hats who stepped blithely in the way of Abie’s hooves, and with drovers, ox carts, carriages and omnibuses carrying on as always (for London did not halt at a mere drenching), Mycroft and Abie still managed to circumvent each obstacle, and reached their destination in fifteen minutes flat.

  Mycroft Holmes was sodden, his overcoat wringing wet, jacket, shirt and trousers clinging against his skin. His blond hair, which he had thus far neglected to trim, was plastered to his cheeks and forehead. His heart was pounding in his chest most unbecomingly. Even his costly hat was ruined.

  Yet, he could not recall the last time he had felt so carefree.

  He led Abie by the reins underneath an overhang where he would be safe from the storm. Then he paid a local lad tuppence to watch over him until Parfitt arrived to retrieve him.

  “Good lad, Abie,” he whispered.

  Abie returned the compliment by blowing softly through his nose, then nuzzling against Mycroft’s arm. As Mycroft stroked his head, it was all he could do to stop the tears.

  Though in the rain, who would notice?

&n
bsp; 36

  IT HAD BEEN SEVERAL MONTHS SINCE MYCROFT HAD SET foot inside Regent Tobaccos, a place that had been for him haven and respite. But Douglas was nearly always at Nickolus House these days. And of late Mycroft found himself craving a fine steak more often than a fine cigar. Nonetheless, it felt good to be back, good to have ridden here on horseback, rather than being shuttled about in a carriage like some invalid.

  Feeling more fit than he had in a while, he hurried up the steps and opened the shop door, with barely the time to inhale the bewitching aroma of rare tobaccos intermingled with fine old whiskeys when he was undone by the small whirling dervish that was Mr. Pennywhistle.

  “Ooh, but it appears to me, yes it does, that you are soaked to the gills, Mr. Holmes!” Mr. P. boomed as he trotted over, peering up at Mycroft through his spectacles, his small face crumpled with the effort of it. “And me here, with nothing for you to change yourself into!” he fretted.

  Mycroft wondered what he could possibly “change himself into.” A raptor, perhaps? One with a faulty ticker?

  “Cyrus awaits by the fire,” he continued, taking Mycroft’s wet coat and hanging it on the rack by the door, “which I built high, for I had an inkling that on a day like this…”

  “Holmes!” he heard Douglas’s voice call out, then amend: “Mycroft!”

  “I am coming!” Mycroft called back before Mr. P. could articulate one more thought.

  The blaze in the inner room was indeed impressive. His back to the door, Douglas turned at the sound of Mycroft’s footsteps.

  “Good God! You are drenched to the skin!” he declared, rising.

  “I rode here on Abie,” Mycroft announced happily.

  “Well done!” Douglas commended. “But now, take my chair, for it is closer to the fire and I can do without an inferno at my elbow. Here,” he added, moving a Punch Habana cigar and cutter from the arm of one chair to the one he had just vacated. “From your box of five hundred. How’s about a glass of very nice cognac, my treat, to make up for the swill I gave you at Nickolus House?”

  “The cigar will do for now,” Mycroft replied, “for I consumed an ale or two with Parfitt. And you? Will you not indulge? Surely one smoke every blue moon can do you no harm!”

  “Get thee behind me, Satan,” Douglas said, smiling. “For I well know my habit of old: one smoke would surely turn into two, then three, then ten. Besides, I rather enjoy my reputation as the peculiar tobacco purveyor who will not consume his own product.”

  They heard the front doorbell tinkle and the voices of two customers joining Mr. P.’s in the shop.

  “He has been instructed to keep business relegated to the front of house until we depart,” Douglas explained to Mycroft. “So freely tell all.”

  Mycroft cut the tip off the Habana. “I have real news, Douglas: a theory based on something that Parfitt discovered. But first, you have news of your own, have you not? Though I assume it did not go well, that my brother created an obstruction or two, and that you had to set about finding an alternate translator.”

  “It did not, he did, and I did,” Douglas said ruefully. “But, out of sheer, mindless curiosity…”

  Mycroft lit his Habana and took his first pull. “An easy deduction,” he said on the exhale. “The symbols form a very important clue, yet you did not hurry to tell me your news. The most obvious reason is because the conclusion was not satisfying; and second, because you would have had to disparage my brother in order to recount it properly. Sherlock’s vielle case lies there, in the corner,” he said, indicating it with his chin. “He would not have parted with that case for love or money, unless he was forced to. So, unless you wrenched it out of his hand and ran, the most obvious reason you are in possession of it is that you are to continue this portion of the mission without him. My best guess as to why? You and he had dealings with people from a culture where diplomacy is paramount. And, Sherlock being Sherlock, I assume he created some sort of ruckus that cut short the session and truncated any possibility of success. So. What did you find out?” Mycroft asked in conclusion.

  “Flowers,” Douglas said after a pause.

  “Flowers?” Mycroft repeated. “What, all fifteen?”

  “It appears that way.”

  “But that elucidates nothing!” Mycroft declared.

  Douglas nodded again, and shrugged. “It was not all Sherlock’s fault. Indeed, it was mostly mine. Our translator knew the English names of but four: rose, violet, dahlia, tulip. A fifth turned out to be daffodil.”

  “Your wife’s favorite flower,” Mycroft noted.

  Douglas nodded. “I was so set on finding a reader—and Ahn Zhang has knowledge of a dozen written dialects—that it never occurred to me the names in Chinese might prove difficult to then convert into English.”

  “But surely you could have muddled through?” Mycroft asked. “Describing colors and shapes and so forth?”

  When Douglas did not respond, Mycroft sat back. “Ah. And that is where my brother could not successfully hold his tongue. So. Who is this new person you found?”

  “How do you know I found someone?”

  “Because otherwise we would not be sitting here. You would have hustled us back to the docks to ferret out another linguist!”

  Douglas laughed. “Yes, I would have. I do not know him personally,” he continued, “but he was recommended by an acquaintance, a customs officer at St. Katharine Docks who will give me name and assignation this evening. Might I persuade you to come?”

  “You could not keep me away. When Huan comes to fetch me, he can take us there.”

  “Now, what information did Parfitt discover?” Douglas asked. “I pray it is more enlightening than mine.”

  “I believe so, although first I suppose I should enumerate the points that are not enlightening in the least. Professor John Cainborn, aged forty-five, middle name Aloysius. Five years ago he purchased a pied-à-terre in Shoreditch. For, besides teaching at Cambridge, he conducts chemical research at St. Mary’s in Westminster. Oh, and he banks at a new bank on Gracechurch Street, the Standard Chartered.”

  “Fascinating,” Douglas said drolly.

  “Not in the least. And so the trail ends there. But the Chinese gentleman I saw with him, now he is more intriguing. His name is Deshi Hai Lin. His immigration papers state that he is a widower with two children, a son and a daughter.”

  “From where does he hail?”

  “The papers say Shanghai.”

  Douglas smiled. “The boat is more like to have come from Shanghai than he.”

  “That is what I assumed as well, unless every immigrant who has ever set foot on British soil hails from Shanghai. In any event, the son’s birth date conforms to Dai en-Lai Lin’s current age of eighteen, and the daughter’s birth date to Ai Lin, the woman I spoke to at the herbalist’s. Further, a bit of news meant for the Chinese market describes Lin as ‘a man of means, sole proprietor of four steamers based in the East End of London, with routes to India and China.’ Three of the steamers are at the Royal Victoria: The Latitude, The Maritime, and The Royal Richard; while Orion’s Belt is docked at St. Katharine Docks and the only one currently on native soil. Are any familiar?”

  Douglas shook his head. “But my not knowing his ships simply means that they are recent acquisitions,” he clarified, “and therefore after my time; or that they do not transport tobacco or spirits. Were you informed as to what they do carry?”

  “What would be your best guess?” Mycroft asked.

  Douglas shrugged. “Small to mid-range steamers with that trajectory? Tea. Or poppy derivatives, or both.”

  Mycroft nodded. “Parfitt checked with customs, and yes, those seem to be their staples. Lin is also a silent partner in another ship. Parfitt attempted to get more information on her, but there was nothing, at least thus far.”

  “I cannot comprehend it,” Douglas said. “You saw this Mr. Lin board a yellow landaulet. I saw the same contraption at Nickolus House. Then we both saw it barreling at u
s. The question remains: what interest would a wealthy ship owner or his minions have in mowing us down or, as you seem to think, in warning us?”

  Mycroft shrugged. “It is all quite strange,” he replied, “but fascinating. For at my request Parfitt also researched the economy of the poppy trade, something I must say I know little of, as it does not fall into any category that piques my interest. In any event, opium has remained steady at a few shillings short of twenty-two per pound. The India–China trade is flourishing.”

  They heard retreating footsteps coming from the shop, and the doorbell tinkling once again. Then all was quiet.

  “Did Parfitt happen to find out how much is coming into the country, all told?” Douglas asked.

  Mycroft was lifting the cigar to his lips again when he thought better of it, for the smoke was making him queasy. “Yes, and here is the crux,” he said, holding the cigar aloft. “The volume held at one hundred and ten thousand pounds until twelve years ago, 1860,” he said. “At which point it tripled. In the last few years, adjusting for growth in population, personal use of opium has grown seventy percent in this country.”

  Douglas whistled softly. “The customers are there,” he said.

  Mycroft nodded. “urprising in the least. For the whole of this island is a laudanum-taking, absinthe-drinking, coca-chewing, opium-smoking, morphine-injecting morass. That said, we are back to the same dilemma: transporting drugs is commonplace. What need would there be to smuggle? I could understand if this were a few decades ago when tariffs were high. But now? With duties so low? What would be the point?”

  Douglas leaned away from the fire and wiped a small bead of sweat on his brow. “I can think of but one possibility: the new Pharmacy Act. Now that sale of opiates has been limited to pharmacists and registered chemists, the question for consumers and dealers alike becomes ‘What shall the next constraint be?’ Perhaps moving merchandise on the hidden market simply ensures that there will never be disruptions.”

  “Or perhaps what they are moving is not legal, or is certain to draw interest.”